Hello.
I think it's fair to say I don't know Francisco Alarcón
in the way that people generally know other people.
I've never had a drink with the man.
I don't know his taste in movies.
I didn't even really know, until about 15 minutes ago,
what he looked like.
So I got to know him the way that we
get to know other writers--
through words.
He was born in California.
When he was six, he moved down to Mexico.
And when you move from America to Mexico at any age,
I think you know that you stand out.
But that fades.
You grow up and you become a part of things, right?
At 18, he moved back to California
with $5 in his pocket.
He worked as a dishwasher and a grape picker for some time.
And these, as we know in California,
are jobs that immigrants usually do.
He was not an immigrant.
He was a United States citizen.
Again, he's working next to people who craved
the sort of status that he had.
He knew that he stood out.
Now, he also wrote--
and he still does write-- as an openly gay poet
in a community that doesn't quite understand
what homosexuality really is.
Again, he stands out a little bit.
But it's dramatic, and a little bit misleading,
to say something like, Francisco Alarcón is constantly alienated
from his surroundings because he's not.
He affirms his role in the communities that he lives
in-- running workshops in schools,
writing bilingual books of poetry--
which you can buy outside--
for children, teaching at the university level.
He's a part of the places where he goes.
He's here for just a few days and he's leading 3 workshops--
well, he's doing one reading and leading 2 workshops.
I mean, just three days, three events,
where he comes here to help out.
We're about to meet a man who embraces others.
These acts are just as communal as picking grapes.
He understands how the clutter of history behind us
affects how people live their lives in the present.
I'm going to read a poem of his to illustrate this.
"'Banderas.' [SPEAKING SPANISH] Flags--
stupid rags soaked in blood."
Now, flags, as we all know, are usually on flagpoles, right?
We never really see them soaked in blood anywhere
unless you do that at your house,
I don't know what you do.
But you have a poem that brings to us
the sort of surefire definition of flags as bloody rags.
And this is a political gesture.
Yes.
It's obviously one because it's grounded
in a history, a certain history.
And because it's political, it belongs to us,
it belongs to the readers.
Again, it's a communal piece of writing that he has for us.
Now, there are poets who prefer hermitage to this sort
of writing.
There are poets who prefer the abstruse to the accessible.
The range of possible poets is tremendous,
as anyone who reads poetry knows.
Now, imagine the teenager who writes
in her bedroom about a stepmother she absolutely
hates.
Imagine the physician who leaves work late at night
and sits in his dimly-lit car trying to figure out how best
to capture a red wheelbarrow.
Imagine now, Francisco Alarcón, who sees writing as communal
who sees words as a way to connect with people like us,
who are so far removed from him.
Who understands that even though we don't even know what he
looks like-- we're about to find out--
We can be moved by the slow march of his six words
on a tiny piece of paper.
"Flags-- stupid rags soaked in blood."
Ladies and gentlemen, thanks to the Poetry Center
and the Francis McClelland Institute
for young Children and Families, we
don't have to imagine this sort of poet.
Please join me in welcoming Francisco X. Alarcón.
[APPLAUSE]